Let Your Lungs Fill Up with Smoke
by mykindofparty
Summary: Brittany has a bad day. WARNING: Drug use.


Let Your Lungs Fill Up with Smoke  
>AN: Title comes from Take Your Time (Coming Home) by Fun. This is my gift to Jax for her birthday.

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><p>You turn the knob all the way up and crumble back onto the cool tile floor. It's silent in your bathroom except for the sound of your showerhead hissing and spitting water until a steady stream begins to fall, the rhythm matching your heartbeat.<p>

Today was the epitome of all terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days – Principal Figgins vetoed your latest proposal that could've saved the school from having to cut certain clubs and teams (a right which, prior to his refusal, you _thought_ was exclusively yours. President trumped principal last time you checked); Rory got bullied by the hockey team and no one batted an eyelash (you would've done something had you been there, but instead you found out from Sugar at lunch); people whispered cruel things about you in the hallways (that's not so unusual and you mostly let it roll right off your shoulders, but today you heard _her_ name plus _dyke_ thrown into the mix and that angered you more than anything); and Coach Sylvester tore you a new one in front of the entire squad (you were only suggesting ways to improve the choreography… bitch).

Now here you are crying, watching the steam fog up your mirror and trying to gather the will to stand. You consider plugging up the tub and switching your shower to a bath, but before you can think about it too much, there's a knock on the door.

"Go away," you whisper hoarsely. You figure it's Rory – your mom's visiting your Aunt Caroline and your dad won't be back from your sister's indoor soccer game for at least another hour or two – and while you feel absolutely awful that he was picked on again, you're curled into a little ball on the floor, raw and naked and exposed.

But whoever's on the other side of the door doesn't listen and you look on, frozen in place and horrified that you forgot to lock it. You breathe a sigh of relief when _she's_ the one who pops her head in. She always knows where to find you even when you don't want to be found – it's as if you're a lighthouse perched on a jagged cliff and she's a ship drawn to the circling stream of light you emit. You can't help but wonder what is so special about your light in the first place – and maybe that's your problem. She's always seen what makes you special, unique. You know you see the light in her.

Suddenly you're reminded of when she found you in the hallway when you and Artie ended things. She whispered soothing words in your ear then, smoothed your hair down, made sure your blonde locks never strayed out of place. You knew how secretly happy she was that it was over between you two – yet she still hated seeing you in pain. You also knew how she agonized over every interaction you shared this spring. But for as much as her worrying kept her up at night, you always knew it would be her in the end; everything else had to run its course.

"You know I can't do that," she says. "Not when you're upset. What kind of girlfriend do you think I am?"

She's staring directly into your eyes and you feel your heart pounding out of control, faster than the water beating down and it enthralls you. She quickly shuffles inside and shuts the door behind her. She doesn't waste any time crouching down beside you and wrapping her arms around your torso. The way she holds you makes you feel safer than you've ever felt and you kind of feel like a jerk for at least not letting her know you were okay.

"Coach is a dumbass," she says when you don't respond. "Those side aerials would _so_ win us nationals."

Being with her is as easy as breathing and you relax into her as the warm, hazy air brushes across your face. "It would definitely make a difference," you finally answer, flashing her a weak smile.

"Well, you're the difference maker," she replies in that earnest tone she always uses with you these days.

You laugh darkly – nothing you've done today's made any difference, despite your best efforts.

"You _are_," she insists. "Remember when you didn't think you could run for president? Honey, you _did_ and you_ won_. You have tons of great ideas for making the school a better place. Maybe you just need –"

"I don't wanna talk about school," you say.

She kisses your temple and reaches for her backpack, which you hadn't noticed before. "I know something that'll help." You wonder what she's doing until you see her pull out a little baggie. _Oh_. "Ever since that whole ad fiasco, Mr. Ryerson's practically been beating down my door trying to convince me to become the face of Chronic Lady," she explains. "I haven't said yes, but who knows? Maybe I'll reconsider after the fantastic deal he gave me."

This time your laugh is genuine. You're no stranger to weed, but this is competition season – either of you could be subjected to random drug testing, after all. Then again, after the terrible day you've had, you just can't bring yourself to care. "Where do you want to do this?" you ask.

"Why go anywhere else when we've got all we need right here?" she replies, packing the bowl and you can't help but think there's more truth in that statement than she even knows.

Fifteen minutes later, you've forgotten why you were so upset in the first place. Instead, a million lazy thoughts float through your mind and your unfocused eyes are almost as dry as your cotton-feeling mouth. You lick your lips. "Santana," you rasp out and she smiles because your words have been few and far between this evening, "what are we going to do once we leave Lima?"

It's a question that's been plaguing your mind, creeping up at the most inconvenient times and she's always avoided the subject in the past, but if you can't ask her now, when can you?

"We're gonna go on adventures, Britt."

The way she says it lets you know it's more than a promise; it's a guarantee. You can't think of anything you want more in life and suddenly your high isn't a result of the drugs.

"Come on," she says, raking her eyes over your lithe form, "let's go to your room. I paid St. Patrick five bucks to get lost when he answered the front door."

You shut off the tap, but not before running your hand under the water for a split second, remembering how earlier you imagined it echoing your drumming heart when in fact the girl standing there is truly the one who matches you beat for beat.


End file.
